


All That Glitters

by latin_cat



Category: Blake et Mortimer | Blake and Mortimer
Genre: Book: L'Onde Septimus | The Septimus Wave, Book: Le Bâton de Plutarque | Plutarch's Staff, Fic Continuation, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-02 02:19:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19189936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latin_cat/pseuds/latin_cat
Summary: Post-'The Septimus Wave'. News breaks of Olrik's recovery and escape from Bethlam Hospital. Whilst Blake initiates a nationwide manhunt, Mortimer takes matters into his own hands.A continuation of the wonderful "Emergence" by Blackpenny.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Emergence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4599855) by [Blackpenny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackpenny/pseuds/Blackpenny). 



> The idea for this scenario mainly stemmed from two short interactions that take place in "Plutarch's Staff" and "Curse of the 30 Pieces of Silver", followed by reading Blackpenny's fic "Emergence", which is a much-needed resolution to the events of "The Septimus Wave". Thank you for writing such a wonderful fic, and I hope you don't mind me taking my cue from the end of it!
> 
> (This is also my first foray into writing for this fandom, so any feedback or critique would be most welcome.)

When news breaks that Colonel Olrik has escaped from Bethlem Hospital, Philip Mortimer is not in the least surprised. With Dr Soprianski’s marked contempt for his patients and _laissez-faire_ attitude towards security – not to mention Olrik’s seemingly uncanny ability to evade any long-term consequences from his various escapades – it was bound to have happened sooner or later.

What _does_ surprise the professor is the swiftness with which the colonel has made his recovery. It is just over a month since Olrik had his mind turned inside-out by the Septimus Wave – the third such incident to befall the man in as many years – and he was reduced to a semi-catatonic state. From this Mortimer can only conclude that Olrik must possess a mental resilience beyond that of most men; were his own psyche subjected to such repeated abuse, the professor could not say with any certainty that _he_ might pull through with such vigour.

Blake, understandably, is livid.

‘The idiot!’ the captain growls, pacing the sitting room floor in their shared Park Lane flat. ‘The egotistical, short-sighted, fat-headed idiot! And he has the gall to say that I should have done more, when he all but barred my men from the hospital!’

Mortimer automatically knocks out his pipe into the grate, before filling it with fresh tobacco. At this particular moment it is Dr Soprianski who is the subject of the captain’s ire. Francis Blake is not given to excessive displays of emotion, even in private, and ordinarily is damn near unflappable in a crisis. As such, the professor is finding it difficult to recall when he last saw his friend quite so angry.

‘Run the details by me again,’ he says. If he cannot hope to calm Blake down for the moment, then at least he might be able to stop him wearing a hole in the carpet.

It works, to a degree. Blake’s fury abates a little, and he slows in his pacing. Heaving a sigh, he turns to the professor and begins to recount the sordid tale.

‘It happened around ten o’clock yesterday morning. The previous evening Soprianski had ordered that Olrik be taken for some further tests, having grown suspicious of his apparent lack of progress compared to that of the other patients.’ Blake shakes his head angrily, but continues. ‘After an initial examination, he became convinced that Olrik was faking his catatonia, so he sent the orderly back to the ward with amended instructions for the scheduled bloodwork and radiology, leaving him to confront the colonel alone.’

Coming to a halt next to Mortimer, Blake leans against the mantelpiece. He takes out his own pipe and pulls a face.

‘Olrik knocked him out with a single punch,’ he says, dispassionately. ‘Soprianski was found twenty minutes later by the returning orderly – bound, gagged, and stripped to his undergarments. Olrik had stolen his clothes and, to add insult to injury, made his getaway in the doctor’s car.’

Mortimer grunts unsympathetically as he finishes tamping down the tobacco and reaches for the box of matches kept on the mantelpiece. The professor had never liked Soprianski. ‘Stupid bugger had it coming to him. We warned him that Olrik was dangerous.’

‘Trust me, the treatment he received from Olrik is nothing compared to what I’d like to do to him!’ Blake mutters darkly. ‘Thanks to Soprianski, one of the world’s most dangerous criminals has once again slipped through our fingers and is now at large. Dear God, Philip, what a mess!’

Pipe lit, Mortimer takes a couple of puffs and lets out a heavy sigh. ‘In truth, Francis, I feel I am as much to blame as Soprianski.’

Blake looks up at his friend sharply and frowns. ‘How so?’

‘In order to surprise Soprianski so thoroughly and to successfully escape the hospital, it only makes sense to assume Olrik’s consciousness must have fully resurfaced several days ago – possibly at the same time as the other patients started showing signs of recovery,’ Mortimer explains. ‘Which means he may have been faking his condition for as much as a week. And as I visited him during that time and didn’t suspect a thing, I am in part responsible for his being allowed to escape.’

‘I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself, old chap,’ Blake says, his tone softening towards his companion. ‘Olrik is a consummate actor and an accomplished liar. I doubt he’s ever spoken a word of truth in his life! You had no reason to suspect anything. Indeed, if the nurses looking after him day-in, day-out didn’t notice any significant change, then I don’t see how you could have hoped to. More to the point, you tried to persuade Soprianski to take precautions – to transfer Olrik to a secure hospital, or allow a guard on the ward, remember? He point-blank refused!’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ Mortimer concedes grudgingly, though it doesn’t make him feel any better. ‘But I should have insisted, gone over Soprianski’s head… Perhaps, deep down, I was naïve enough to think that this time might be different. Olrik’s last act was a noble one, choosing to sacrifice himself when he could just as easily have run. Maybe I thought that, with the rebalancing of his mind and a steady convalescence, he might have had the opportunity to change. For the better.’

Blake sends him a pitying look. ‘You are too generous by far, Philip. After all the lives he’s ruined, everything he’s done to you – to us – I would have thought you of all people would know that fiend is beyond salvation!’

_Perhaps,_ Mortimer thinks, dropping his gaze to the carpet and taking another puff at his pipe. But he knows that he cannot hope to make Blake understand. The captain had not been there last Christmas in Septimus’ lair, nor at the warehouse in Southwark a month ago. Blake had not seen Olrik hopelessly under the thrall of Septimus, the once-proud adventurer broken and subdued, nor strapped to the chair in Professor Evangely’s lab, transfixed, his face blank of emotion while his eyes silently screamed. Even now the memories make Mortimer shudder.

‘Have you any leads?’ he asks, suddenly anxious to turn the subject back to the immediate situation.

Blake notices his discomfort, but the captain has the courtesy not to draw attention to it. Much to Mortimer’s relief.

‘The police found Sopranski’s car abandoned in Peckham Rye. Door-to-door enquiries in the immediate area place Olrik in a nearby pub around twelve o’clock that afternoon. The landlord only clocked him because he “looked fair done-in”. Apparently he met with an associate – a man, but no clear description – and they left together about an hour later. No indication as yet whether they went off in a vehicle, or on foot. We also thought to try Miss Lilly Sing’s establishment, on the slim chance that Olrik might have returned there to seek shelter, but my agents report that she shut up shop some weeks ago, neglecting to leave a forwarding address.’ Blake gives a humourless smile. ‘Smart move on her part; being on our radar would be very bad for her business. I daresay she’ll re-emerge at some point in the not too distant future.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ Mortimer agrees. He had not met Miss Sing, but judging by Olrik’s brief account of his time spent under her ‘protection’, she sounded formidable. In Mortimer’s experience, women like that never stay buried for long. ‘Where do you suppose the villain will go?’

‘He’ll make for the Continent.’ Blake answers without hesitation. ‘Britain’s too hot to hold him right now, and it’s clear he still has an active network of associates. I imagine they’ll do their best to get him out of the country quickly, before we can tighten the net.’ The captain scoffs at the idea. ‘Some hope! There’s a nationwide manhunt on for him. We’ve got a watch on every air and seaport, and the coastguard is on high alert. The moment he makes a move, we’ll have him!’

The professor gives a nod of approval as his friend further details MI5’s and Scotland Yard’s preparations for their joint operation, but privately Mortimer knows that Blake is barking up entirely the wrong tree. Because Olrik won’t be heading for the Continent; not yet, anyway. Despite the colonel’s rapid mental recovery, his physical condition is such that he won’t be fit enough to travel any great distance for at least a couple of weeks, during which time he’ll have to find somewhere to convalesce in Britain. Secondly – and this is Mortimer’s real reason for disagreeing with his friend’s usually sound reasoning – Olrik won’t be leaving the country yet because he has something very important to recover first, and doing so will take time.

As Blake continues to seethe, offering further warm comparisons between Dr Soprianski’s own mental capacity and that of his patients, Mortimer quietly reflects that his friend is also wrong in his other assertion regarding the ‘colonel’. To Mortimer’s certain knowledge, Olrik has told the truth at least twice in his life; the second time being just over a month ago before he resigned himself to the Septimus Wave, and the first… well, was over a decade ago. It is thanks to this first truth, let slip in an unguarded moment, that Mortimer believes without a shadow of a doubt their old enemy will for now remain in the country.

Yet he isn’t about to tell Blake. Francis may be the head of MI5, Mortimer thinks, but he is not the only one with secrets to keep.

 

***

_‘Clumsy fool!’_

_Mortimer turns in his chair at the exclamation, hissed in English that is just a little too perfect to be uttered by a native._

_The dining room at Bletchley Park (a.k.a. ‘Station X’) is crammed with bodies, both uniformed and in civilian attire. Being a warm spring evening the air is close and humid. Since his transfer to the facility at Scafell, Mortimer has often missed the company of his intellectual peers, but one thing he has_ not _missed is the crush at mealtimes. Fortunately those Other Ranks stationed here have their own messes, but even limited to just the officers and civilian staff, it is still an uncomfortably tight squeeze._

_‘Did you drop something, Colonel?’ The professor addresses the figure behind him, who is already bending down to retrieve an item from the floor._

_‘Not “something”, Professor.’ Colonel Olrik, the base’s expert in Slavic languages, straightens up, bracing himself against the back of Mortimer’s chair as he does so. He is clutching a thin, golden object which glitters in the candlelight of the dining room, and he presents it for Mortimer’s inspection. ‘My gold cigarette holder. It’s all I have left of my departed father! It’s very dear to me.’_

_Mortimer blinks, his eyes involuntary drawn to the cigarette holder. It is certainly an elegant little piece, in a style that puts him in mind of the early years of this century; about four to five inches long, the metal a warm honey colour that betrays its quality. A fine example of the goldsmiths’ art._

_‘Fortunately it seems undamaged,’ the professor remarks, and once again looks up at the colonel. As he does so, he catches a glimpse of something – a fleeting expression in Olrik’s dark blue eyes that is somehow at odds with the colonel’s habitual aloofness. Then it is gone, and the colonel looks away, back to his usual self-assured demeanour, his hand fishing in the pocket of his impeccably-tailored dinner jacket._

_‘Which reminds me –’ he remarks. ‘– that I’m out of cigarettes. I’ll go and get some now; that way I won’t bother anyone at the end of the meal.’_

_Mortimer watches Olrik’s broad shoulders retreat as he strides out of the dining room and disappears into the hall. A small frown creases the professor’s brow. Odd fellow, that._

‘There goes a man certain of his own worth,’ _Bluebell had sneered earlier in the bar._

_Yes, Mortimer has to admit he does find the colonel’s arrogance unbearable, though much of that could in fairness be attributed to his simply being foreign. In his travels, the professor had often noted that few other nations had time for the culture of excessive modesty the British cultivated when speaking about their achievements – and in the few conversations he has held with the colonel, Mortimer has found him to be fairly brilliant in his own way, if not always mathematically sound in his reasoning. Also, like many of the foreign nationals at Bletchley, Olrik is essentially a refugee. Forced to leave his country and uncertain of his future, the colonel must be constantly aware that his privileged status will last only as long as he remains useful to Allied Command. In his former life, Olrik had clearly been a person of means and reputation. Now he has to prove his worth every day. Surely that cannot help but have an effect on the man?_

_But this is not what is bothering Mortimer. Even in casual conversation, Olrik radiates an air of quiet menace. Whilst his former occupation as a military instructor could account well-enough for this, there is something else about the colonel; something the professor can’t quite put a name to, which hints at danger. And just now… For a moment, just a moment, the colonel’s cold hauteur had slipped and Mortimer had glimpsed something of the man underneath. There is much more going on in that mind than appearances suggest._

_It was an intuition that, months later, turned out to be all too correct, and with the direst of consequences._


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks have passed without any further incident, and no fresh news of Olrik. As the colonel cannot simply have absconded without triggering some sort of alert, Blake and his superiors at the Intelligence Service have come to the conclusion that he has gone to ground somewhere, waiting for the heat to die down before he makes his run for the Continent. Sooner or later, Olrik will resurface. He always does. In the meantime Philip Mortimer keeps his own council, and waits patiently.

The first indicator that something is in the offing is a rather innocuous phone call from a constable in the evidence room at Scotland Yard. After being put through to the professor at the CSIR, the young policeman apologises for disturbing him at work and proceeds to explain the reason for his call.

‘I’ve been asked to review the evidence related to the Septimus Cases,’ the constable says, who rejoices in the name of Higgins. ‘I was going through the log when I came across a note from Chief Inspector Kendall stating that you were permitted to keep three small items associated with the case, but there’s no record of what they were. Would you mind giving me the details, sir? Just in case someone needs to know later on.’

‘Of course,’ Mortimer says jovially. For security’s sake, it was deemed prudent for Scotland Yard to take charge of the evidence this time round instead of the Psychiatric Institute, as it was a distinct possibility that the still-at-large Professor Evangely would have sympathisers there who might otherwise attempt to liberate equipment for him. ‘They’re nothing very exciting, I’m afraid. It’s the coat and goggles that were worn by the “Yellow M”; the coat being the original from Dr Septimus’ lab, not the replica that was made by Evangely.’

‘Can you describe them for me?’

Mortimer obliges, and there is a focussed silence on the other end of the line as ‘Constable Higgins’ diligently records the information. Idly, Mortimer wonders if he is talking to a genuine police constable who has been unknowingly manipulated into asking after the items, or some young goon particularly gifted in the thespian arts. He will have to check with Kendall at a later date.

‘Thank you, sir,’ the young man says, after Mortimer has finished. ‘That’s helpful. And the third item mentioned in the note?’

Mortimer smiles to himself down the receiver. _Now we’re getting to it._

‘Oh, yes,’ the professor remarks, doing his best to sound as if he has only just remembered. ‘A cigarette holder, thought to have belonged to Colonel Olrik. About four and a half inches long, gold, fairly plain. As it wasn’t directly linked to either case, Kendall didn’t mind my keeping it.’

Again there is a short silence from Higgins as he records these details. Mortimer imagines that he can hear the faint scratching of a pen nib.

‘And was there an estimated value for the cigarette holder, sir?’ the young man then asks.

The question catches Mortimer off guard. That Higgins has thought to ask does seem to confirm he is indeed a genuine police constable, but it does also put the professor in a slightly awkward position.

‘Er,’ he begins eloquently, and Mortimer feels himself flush.

How on earth is he going to answer this one? Strictly speaking, the cigarette holder is too valuable a piece for Kendall simply to have let him keep it. Kendall had known this at the time, of course, and so had been deliberately vague about its worth when Mortimer had tentatively enquired about keeping it. The chief inspector had simply glanced at the object, and remarked with a grunt; _‘Probably imitation, knowing that rogue. All flash and no bang! Keep it if you like, Professor.’_ They both knew better of course.

‘I don’t believe so, no,’ Mortimer continues, stumbling a little. ‘Kendall was of the opinion it was imitation. Ten pounds at the most, perhaps?’

‘I see, sir,’ the constable says slowly. He clearly doesn’t believe Mortimer, but probably also realises that, realistically, there isn’t very much he can do about it. After all, the chief inspector _did_ sign off on it – and if desperate they at least know the item is in Mortimer’s possession. ‘Very well, sir, thank you for your time. Goodbye.’

The line clicks off, and Mortimer replaces the receiver – a little embarrassed, but not disproportionately so. The pertinent point is that Mortimer has delivered his message; now he has to wait for the information to get back to Olrik, and try to determine what the villain’s next move will be.

The following day Blake receives news that the colonel has been spotted in the vicinity of Hull; one of the most convenient ports for making a dash behind the Iron Curtain. The captain is elated, and immediately makes arrangements for himself and his team to head north and intercept the fugitive.

‘The city police are setting up a perimeter around the docks as we speak,’ Blake says. He is in his bedroom at Park Lane, having stopped home to pack himself a small overnight case. Honeychurch is waiting outside with a car. ‘He won’t give us the slip this time!’

Looking up from his task, he turns to the professor, who is observing from the doorway. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come, Philip? You deserve to be there at the end.’

‘Thank you, Francis, but no,’ Mortimer replies, removing his pipe from his mouth. ‘I appreciate the offer, but as I said before, considering my part in this whole debacle, I can’t find any pleasure in the thought of running the man down. I’ll leave that to younger, keener types than myself.’

Blake gives his friend a teasing smile. ‘By that reasoning I assume you’d judge this old warhorse to be “past it” as well?’

‘Perish the thought!’ Mortimer knows his friend is only joking, yet he still flushes a little at the suggestion. He’d never label Francis as being ‘past’ anything. ‘But, well, you know what I mean.’

The captain’s smile is replaced by a slightly worried frown, and Blake looks torn. Clearly he is concerned for his friend, but he is also champing at the bit to get after his quarry. His expression is so comical that Mortimer laughs.

‘Go on, away with you!’ he chuckles, gripping his pipe between his teeth. ‘I’ll be fine, really. Be sure to give the rogue my regards – and my best wishes for his stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure!’

A few minutes later, Mortimer watches from the sitting room window as Blake and Honeychurch drive off, giving them a little wave as they go. At the same time, he spots a dark red saloon discreetly parked on the opposite side of the road a couple of houses further along. From where he is standing Mortimer cannot see if there is anyone inside, but if there is then they would definitely be able to see him silhouetted against the window. Indeed, nothing would have drawn the professor’s attention to the car had he not been looking for it.

Feeling some satisfaction that his theory has been proved correct, Mortimer moves swiftly but casually away from the window so that any occupants of the saloon will not suspect he has noticed them, and begins to make his plans for the evening.

Following a quick but filling dinner, two hours later Mortimer is in the hallway, putting on his coat and hat as Mrs Benson holds the door open for him. The taxi he has ordered is waiting outside with the engine running.

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to wait up for you, Professor?’ the landlady asks. ‘You know it’ll be no trouble.’

‘Very kind of you, Mrs Benson,’ Mortimer replies, being careful to keep his voice raised above the noise of the engine, so not only Mrs Benson, but any passer-by or loiterer might clearly hear. ‘But I really have no idea what time I will be back. I’ve been waiting for this data to come through for weeks, and the analysis will undoubtedly take some time. Indeed, it may well be tomorrow morning before I return home from the CSIR.’

‘You work yourself too hard, Professor.’ Mrs Benson shakes her head. ‘You and the captain! I’ve said it before and I’ll keep saying it, for all the good it'll ever do.’

Mortimer furnishes her with an unrepentant smile. ‘Goodnight, Mrs Benson. I’ll see you at breakfast.’

About ten minutes into the taxi ride, however, when Mortimer is certain that he is not being followed, he leans forward and addresses the driver.

‘Change of plan, Dick,’ he says. ‘Double back via Grosvenor Square and drop me off in Culross Street.’

The taxi driver glances at him in the rearview mirror with a puzzled frown, but since their chance meeting during the ‘Yellow M’ business Dick Harris has become Professor Mortimer’s go-to driver for odd requests and peculiar journeys. So he merely shrugs.

‘Your fare, Professor,’ he says lightly, and does as Mortimer asks, turning off Park Lane at the next left and beginning a winding journey back in the direction they have just come. After roughly twenty minutes of weaving in and out of traffic and negotiating narrow thoroughfares, they arrive at the far end of Culross Street, which runs directly off Park Lane and leads to the garages and the enclosed courtyard at the rear of No. 99.

Having paid Dick, and double-checking that he is otherwise unobserved, Mortimer slips through an alleyway into the courtyard, and heads for the back door of No. 99. It takes him a little while to find the right key – he cannot recall if he has actually ever used it before – and then he lets himself in via the kitchen.

His appearance from out of the scullery is so unexpected that Mrs Benson gives a small shriek of alarm, and the professor only narrowly escapes having his head knocked-in with the tea kettle.

‘Oh, Professor!’ she gasps, clutching at her heart. ‘You gave me such a turn!’

‘My apologies, Mrs Benson.’ The professor lowers his hands from the panicked defensive stance he had adopted. Privately he vows never to use the back door again, unless Mrs Benson is on holiday. ‘My fault entirely. I didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘But whatever are you creeping in the back door for?’ she asks, replacing the kettle on the stove. ‘If you’ve misplaced your key, you needed only ring the doorbell.’

‘Well, it’s a bit delicate actually,’ Mortimer begins. ‘The fact is I need someone to think I am elsewhere tonight instead of here. You see –’

But, unexpectedly, Mrs Benson holds up a quelling hand. ‘Say no more, Professor. I lived long enough in this house with Major Benson to recognise when I needn’t know the details. I assume whatever it is has something to do with the dark red saloon that’s been parked across the street since early this morning?’

‘Why yes,’ the professor answers, somewhat taken aback by his landlady’s perceptiveness. He is a little disappointed, actually. He has prepared a detailed cover story centring around an overly-inquisitive journalist, but it seems that Mrs Benson has removed the need for subterfuge.

‘And I take it that you don’t intend to alert the police, or Captain Blake for that matter?’

‘No, no not at all. It will be easily straightened out, and in this instance calling the police will be unnecessarily heavy-handed.’

Mrs Benson gives him a look that is as doubtful as it is piercing, and Mortimer feels himself go hot under the collar. It is as if he is five years old again, and his nanny has caught him with something undesirable in his pockets.

‘As long as you’re certain, Professor,’ she says, after a lengthy pause.

‘Quite certain, Mrs Benson.’ Mortimer is grateful that she has decided to be magnanimous. ‘I give you my word it will all be resolved by tomorrow.’

‘Then I’ll go up and draw the curtains, as I usually do,’ she says briskly. ‘After which you can go up to your study unobserved. You should be able to switch on the lights once there, seeing as those windows face the back of the house. I’ll put on some tea.’

‘You’re a treasure, Mrs Benson,’ Mortimer says, a relieved smile spreading across his face.

The landlady merely shakes her head, and fills the kettle from the sink.


	3. Chapter 3

The evening passes too slowly for Mortimer’s liking.

Having quietly ensconced himself in his study, the professor attempts to keep his mind distracted with work and Mrs Benson’s excellent tea, but in this he is only marginally successful. Anticipation and impatience gnaw away at his guts; it’s always the same when he’s waiting on the edge of action. But wait he must, and so he gives up on work and fetches a journal article on the Helwan excavations sent to him by his good friend Ahmed Rassim Bey. Happily this proves a little more diverting, and he is soon immersed.

At around ten o’clock, when he is certain that Mrs Benson has gone to bed, the professor extinguishes his pipe and switches off the desk lamp. Reaching into a drawer, he extracts a small item and slips it into his jacket pocket, followed by his old issue Browning which he places in the other pocket. He hopes he will not need the gun, but considering who he is expecting to come calling tonight it pays to be prepared.

Rising from the desk he crosses the room, switches off the light and steps into the dark corridor. Cautiously, Mortimer makes his way to the shared sitting room, steals inside and pulls the doors closed behind him.

The professor allows his eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom; though not pitch black, it is still dim enough inside to be disorientating. Earlier, when making his plans before dinner, he had swapped one of the two smaller chairs by the coffee table for the high-backed blue armchair that usually sits adjacent to the doors, and arranged it so that both the armchair and remaining smaller chair are facing the fireplace. Mortimer now moves to the armchair and makes himself comfortable, knowing that anyone else entering the darkened sitting room won’t be able to see that the chair is occupied. Reaching into his pocket, Mortimer takes out the cigarette holder and places it on the coffee table next to the ash tray; somewhere in plain sight, but not incongruously so. His expected visitor knows that this is the room where he and Blake keep the various souvenirs of their adventures; it would seem logical to him to look for and find it in here.

Though Mortimer can appreciate his enemy’s line of reasoning, he cannot help but grimace at the thought. There is no way neither he nor the captain would be so crass as to consider the cigarette holder a ‘souvenir’ or, God forbid, ‘trophy’, but unfortunately Olrik’s opinion of his fellow man is so low that it won’t ever occur to him to think otherwise.

With the stage set, Mortimer loosens the Browning from his pocket. He rests it in his lap, settles back into the chair, and waits.

Only this time, waiting proves to be a more difficult affair. Sitting alone in the dark, unable to give himself any distractions, Mortimer’s mind inevitably wanders and doubt begins to set in. This may very well be one of the most foolhardy things he has ever done – and there are plenty of instances in the professor’s life competing for a place in that category! If Blake were here he would certainly waste no time in pointing out the same. _What on earth were you thinking, Philip?_ Were _you even thinking?_ He can practically hear his friend’s voice in his head now!

And it is foolhardy; meeting his old adversary in this manner, purposefully drawing the brigand into his home. If Blake had feared for Mortimer’s mental wellbeing over the past couple of months, then after this exasperation alone might sorely tempt him to recommend the professor’s committal. Not that he imagines for a moment Blake would seriously entertain such a thought for more than a few seconds, but one thing is certain; when – not _if_ – Blake finds out about this, he is going to be furious. Yet even so Mortimer is fairly confident he will be forgiven. Eventually.

That is, if anything _does_ happen tonight. A fresh doubt comes to the fore in the professor’s mind; what if after everything he is wrong? Even if most of the evidence does support his hypothesis, there is still quite a substantial amount of supposition on his part. Olrik might easily send someone else. It may not even be tonight. Mortimer could be sitting here in the dark like a fool for no reason at all – and won’t he look ridiculous in the morning!

Even as the thought occurs, though, Mortimer dismisses it. No, he is being ridiculous. Outside of his own reasoning Constable Higgins’ enquiry, the call summoning Blake to Hull and the red saloon are all external factors – and too well-timed to be mere coincidence. In the same way, Mortimer knows he has to be here. He knows that this is important, in a way he cannot necessarily express in words, and he knows it is not something he can trust to anyone else.

Last Christmas when the professor had woken in Septimus’ lair having been knocked out by the doctor’s hypnotic disc, Mortimer had been greeted by the sight of Septimus nonchalantly smoking a cigarette; and it was with shock and a sense of outrage that he had recognised the elegant gold holder clenched between the man’s teeth. It seemed the doctor had not only been content with stealing Olrik’s will and dignity. Coupled with the grotesque spectacle Mortimer had witnessed in the lab a few hours beforehand, this simple, unthinking act had struck the professor as utterly obscene.

Following Septimus’ death and Olrik’s escape into the sewers of London, the cigarette holder had been found resting on the Telecephaloscope control panel; fortunately the doctor had put it down when he had seized the whip in his rage to go after ‘Guinea Pig’, otherwise it would have been atomised along with the rest of him. Mortimer had positively identified it as belonging to Olrik, and it had duly been filed with the rest of the ‘evidence’ at the Psychiatric Institute Archives.

On obtaining his ‘special loans’ from the Archive to begin his own experiments with the Telecephaloscope (securing the goggles and coat of Guinea Pig in the process), Mortimer had also enquired after the cigarette holder. A dismayed archivist had informed him that a few weeks after the conclusion of the Yellow M incident it had mysteriously vanished from the collection, doubtlessly taken by some opportunist thief. Mortimer had been deeply saddened by the news, but not questioned it; therefore he was somewhat astonished when the item had turned up at Professor Evangely’s lab when he had accompanied the police on their raid of the warehouse. Kendall had found it in a pocket of the suit Olrik had been wearing before being forced into the replica Yellow M costume; and from this Mortimer deduced that it was Olrik who had stolen the holder from the Archive or, taking into account his fragile state of health at the time, had engaged one of Miss Sing’s associates to steal it back for him. However, in doing so Olrik had accidentally betrayed the significance he attaches to the item, and also revealed that he is capable of sentimentality. Who’d have thought?

With all this in mind, and the statement the colonel let slip all those years ago at Bletchley, Mortimer is convinced in his bones that it will be Olrik who comes to recover his property tonight. As such, it must be Mortimer himself who is here to greet him. There is no real logic to it, no quantifiable evidence, save a neat symmetry and a chance to exorcise his guilt.

Yes, guilt. Mortimer shifts uncomfortably in his chair as he once again considers his part in the wretched saga. He has had plenty of guilt to work through in this past month. Whilst his experiments with the Mega Wave were not solely responsible for Olrik’s relapses into neurosis and reviving Septimus – Evangely more than contributed there! – they had certainly not helped; and it was Mortimer’s last action that had very nearly destroyed Olrik’s mind. There was also the question as to whether Septimus would have returned with or without Mortimer’s experiments; whether Evangely’s meddling alone would have been enough to release his shade from the Wave. There was quite possibly no way of telling.

After the Yellow M business the authorities had tried to keep the details of the affair secret, the Telecephaloscope being far too dangerous a machine to be revealed to the world in general. To discourage imitators such as Evangely, Francis’ department had managed to spin enough disinformation that most hostile powers, domestic _and_ foreign, simply did not believe the machine could do what Septimus claimed to have done. It was all, simply, too fantastic. Yet despite all their care somehow the story had leaked. Kendell guessed one of the seven scientists Septimus had ‘Guinea Pig’ abduct had spilled to the gutter press, and the resulting half-baked story had captured the public’s imagination and thirst for melodrama.

It had all been officially denied, of course. Even Macomber, when questioned by his fellow journalists, had dismissed the sordid plot as fantasy – which from the editor of the _Daily Mail_ , the paper that usually leapt at the smallest opportunity to stir the pot, was indeed noteworthy. Fortunately Olrik’s name was never publicly connected with the Yellow M; the identity of the ill-fated Guinea Pig remained a tantalising mystery and the subject of much speculation – none of it, thankfully, anywhere near the truth, though the physical description had come dangerously close to the mark. Indeed, had Mortimer not been quite so distracted by Lady Rowena’s charm at Bethlem Hospital, her mention of Olrik’s name in association with Guinea Pig should have set off greater alarm bells in his mind.

The clock on the far wall gently chimes eleven and Mortimer frowns, his thoughts turning to his old adversary, and therefore taking on a darker shade. _Olrik._ Before this latest debacle Mortimer had last seen the wretch disappearing down the tunnel into the London sewers after killing Septimus, evading the bullets of the police whizzing past his head. Before that it had been descending into the mastaba of Tanitkara in their quest to locate the Chamber of Horus. In the short time they had both been imprisoned together in Southwark, Mortimer had not had the opportunity to question Olrik about his experience in the desert or as the Yellow M. The professor himself still could not recall what had happened to the three of them in Egypt, whether they had found the chamber or not, save for a few flashes of inspiration whilst under pressure, and the vague intuition that it was something to do with Sheik Abdel Razek. But whilst Blake and he had only lost approximately twelve hours of their memory, it seemed Olrik had forgotten everything, even his own name; his mind a perfect _tabula rasa_.

Perhaps, Mortimer considered, that would have been punishment enough for his sins, for what could Olrik truly do to atone? After the defeat of the Yellow Empire he had been tried _in absentia_ and found guilty of war crimes by the International Criminal Court, though a sentence had never been awarded as at the time he was believed to be dead, killed in the assault of Lhasa Palace along with Basum Damdu and all his inner retinue. Execution would have certainly awaited Olrik had he been captured back then; but now, five years on and with tempers cooled, what would that achieve? Would life imprisonment with no hope of reform be any better? It would certainly stop the ‘colonel’ committing further atrocities, but in the end it would simply amount to another life wasted. Maybe Olrik’s return to innocence had been a blessing as much as a punishment; a chance for him to forsake his life of crime and begin anew.

Only fate had instead delivered him into the evil clutches of Dr Jonathan Septimus, and Olrik’s precious second chance had been squandered on the perverse campaign of the Yellow M.

Mortimer shivered. He recalled Olrik’s fear as they were cornered by the army of Septimuses, terrified at the prospect of his re-enslavement; stumbling in the sewers, pale and shaking from the withdrawal symptoms of his morphine addiction. He had never seen Olrik afraid before – angry, frenzied, maddened, yes, but never afraid. He remembers also the colonel’s studied calm when donning the goggles of Guinea Pig one last time and strapping himself into the Telecephaloscope, resigned yet determined to meet his fate. Despite every despicable act he has committed there is a strange nobility to the colonel, which though the professor dearly wishes otherwise he cannot help but admire. If only it had not been Septimus who had brought Olrik out of the desert. If only he had been allowed to recover under a benign influence. What might Olrik accomplish if he were only on the side of the angels?

Then the intense quiet of the room is broken by the soft _click_ of a door handle, followed by the sound of the doors swinging open on well-oiled hinges.


	4. Chapter 4

Mortimer tenses in his seat, his hand automatically reaching for the Browning. Though it is gratifying that his theory continues to be vindicated, it is only now the real precariousness of his situation has hit home. Heart pounding in his chest, his fingers curl around the grip, index finger resting lightly over the trigger guard.

The intruder steps across the carpet, their footfalls unhurried and impossibly light, and a moment later the professor hears the smooth scrape of curtain rings as one of the drapes is drawn back. A shaft of light from the street lamp outside falls across the floor, illuminating the room.

 _Clever_ , Mortimer acknowledges. No need to use a torch and risk alerting anyone who might be passing outside, but instead making use of what natural light is available. Smart. Professional.

With cat-like tread the visitor approaches the coffee table; Mortimer can sense them as a looming presence behind him, and he concentrates on staying absolutely still. His every instinct is screaming at him that it is Olrik, though he has yet to receive conclusive proof of this. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a black-gloved hand reach for the cigarette holder. Quick as a dart, Mortimer extends his own hand and catches the wrist in an iron grip.

He feels a jolt of surprise run up the intruder’s arm, almost simultaneous with the startled rustle of cloth and the muzzle of a gun being swiftly pressed into the back of his head. In the split-second that passes, he has no time to jump up from the chair or even raise the Browning.

In the pregnant pause which follows, both parties seem to consider their options. Mortimer, willing himself to calm, lets out a steadying breath. One of them must end this impasse, so he decides to take the risk. Either way, it will confirm once and for all the identity of his interloper.

‘Good evening, Colonel,’ he says neutrally. In comparison to the prior stillness of the room, his voice seems strangely loud.

There is a further tense silence, and then from somewhere above him a low growl rumbles out of the darkness.

‘I should have put a watch on the CSIR.’

The familiar voice sends a shudder of revulsion down Mortimer’s spine. All this time, and still it has the power to conjure so many hideous memories.

‘Don’t be too hard on yourself.’ The professor forces himself to put on a show of bravado. ‘You’ve been out of the game a while; small wonder you’re a little rusty.’

The visitor makes a noise of disgust, and the barrel of the gun presses harder into Mortimer’s scalp.

‘And I suppose your friend Blake is hiding away somewhere too?’ Olrik sneers.

‘Blake is in Hull, chasing shadows.’ Mortimer notices the slight emphasis the villain puts on the word ‘friend’, and wonders what he means by it. ‘Which, judging by your presence here, is clearly your doing. I imagine you hoped we would both go and leave the flat empty, but found your plans frustrated when I stayed.’

‘So you staged your departure for my benefit.’

It is not a question, but Mortimer answers anyway. ‘Yes. It’s only us, though; no one knows you’re here. Unless of course you want to wake up Mrs Benson and the rest of the neighbours, then by all means pull that trigger.’

'I still might.'

Oddly, Mortimer finds himself doubting that statement. Though the immediate situation is undesirable, he doesn't really believe the colonel will shoot him; not like this, and not yet, anyway. Olrik has always been the sort to ask questions first and shoot later; he would’ve made a poor Intelligence agent otherwise. Despite their mutual hatred they are both civilised men, and as evidenced in Mortimer's lab back in June, it is within Olrik's capabilities to listen and be reasonable. Besides, there is too much history between them for the colonel to dispatch him with so little ceremony. That simply isn’t his style.

‘All right, so I’m here,’ Olrik snipes, when Mortimer doesn’t offer any further comment. Despite the professor’s assurances, he clearly wishes to be gone. 'Why go to the trouble, if not to arrest me?'

It occurs to Mortimer that he is still gripping the colonel’s wrist, and he hastily lets go. Olrik’s hand withdraws, empty, but the gun stays trained on the back of Mortimer’s head.

‘I wanted to return your cigarette holder,’ the professor explains. ‘And to guarantee a moment of grace for you to reclaim it. We collectively owe you that much, at least, after what you risked.’

‘Blake wouldn’t agree with you.’

‘Blake isn’t here,' Mortimer replies, though inwardly acknowledging Olrik is correct. 'It was always my intention to return it to you once you were well again.’

‘How very charitable of you.’

Mortimer feels a stab of anger at the sneer in Olrik’s voice. ‘You could show a little gratitude,’ he bites back. ‘But no, I was forgetting; that sentiment is entirely beyond you.’

‘Oh, I am grateful, Professor,’ Olrik says mockingly. ‘For this and those little “gifts” you so graciously bestowed on me during your many visits. The robe was astonishingly tasteful. I hope you were able to get a refund on it.’

‘I left it to the hospital. Some deserving soul will be able to make use of it.’

Mortimer is certain to emphasise the word ‘deserving’, but it appears the jibe has gone wide of the mark as Olrik doesn’t reply. When the colonel speaks again, it is on a completely different tack.

‘What made you so certain that I would come looking for it?’

 _Ah._ He is worried at how Mortimer has managed to predict his behaviour. Naturally, this would trouble the colonel more than anything else.

‘Because of what you told me at Bletchley Park, the night you stole my keys,’ the professor answers honestly. ‘You said then it was all you had left of your father.’

‘I lied.’ The assertion comes a fraction too quickly to be believable. ‘A distraction whilst I stole the key from your jacket.’

‘And a very neat sleight of hand it was too,’ Mortimer says evenly. Just as neat as Olrik’s attempted deflection now. ‘Had Lieutenant Clarke not put the key back in the wrong pocket I may never have suspected what had happened.’

Olrik gives a disapproving grunt. ‘Clarke was careless. He became a hindrance in the end.’

Mortimer has to prevent himself from expressing his disgust at the casual way the colonel speaks of Harvey Clarke’s death. They had hauled the lieutenant's body out of Limehouse Docks, a bullet in the abdomen and one through his brain. The coroner’s report had suggested that Clarke would have survived the abdominal wound with medical attention. The security services hadn’t needed to know the make of the second bullet to suspect who had put _that_ in the young spy’s brain.

‘But I beg to differ,’ Mortimer says, careful to keep his own voice calm, equally cool. ‘Even though it was a distraction, I believe you spoke the truth. This did belong to your father, and it is precious to you. You went to the trouble of stealing it back from the Psychiatric Institute Archive at the end of last year, and there was no reason to believe you wouldn't do the same this time. And that is something I respect, no matter who you are…’

He pauses, swallows down the sudden tightness in his throat and continues.

‘…or what you’ve done.’

Another short silence follows as Olrik considers his words.

'So this is… a truce of sorts?’ the colonel asks speculatively.

'If you like,' Mortimer concedes. If that is a concept Olrik will find acceptable, he'll go with it. So far, so good. ‘But there is another reason I set this up tonight.’

‘You surprise me.’

Mortimer ignores Olrik’s sarcasm and perseveres. ‘I wanted to talk to you so that I could see what condition you are in. Make sure you’ve fully recovered from the effects of the Wave.’

‘Unburden yourself of guilt, you mean?’ Olrik says archly. ‘Save it, Professor, I heard your pathetic platitudes the first time.’

‘You were aware of me?’ Mortimer is more curious than embarrassed, and wishes that he could turn around to see Olrik's expression. He’d paid the colonel several visits at Bedlam, and during each one he had talked at Olrik about a variety of subjects, hoping to get a reaction, but also to give him some sense of company on the off-chance that he might have been aware him – as it appears he was.

‘In a sense, though at first I didn’t know it was you.’ The colonel’s tone turns snide. ‘I was in full possession of my wits during your last visit, however. Believe me, it was a struggle not to laugh in your face!’

Mortimer tightens his jaw. As despicable a person as Olrik is, this is still better than that awful silence, those blank eyes staring into nothing; no emotion, no spark of recognition. Olrik is expressing his hatred and contempt for him; all is right with the world again.

‘Call it what you wish,’ he counters. ‘I prefer to think of it as fulfilling my obligations. It was partly my fault you were made to suffer.’

‘Yes, it was,’ Olrik says darkly. ‘And I told you I would not forget it.’

‘I don’t expect you to for a moment.’ Mortimer draws a deep breath and takes the plunge. ‘But I wanted to ask you about your experience in the desert, and whilst you were under the influence of the Wave.'

The room has fallen quiet again, and this time Mortimer cannot tell whether it is becuse Olrik is surprised by the turn of the conversation, or thinking over what he has said. These are not the best conditions for holding this discussion, but the professor cannot think of any other way he could broach the subject. That his experiences in Egypt and with the Waves have profoundly affected the colonel is clear, and Mortimer has to confess a strong personal and scientific curiosity as to Olrik’s perspective of events. He cannot begin to imagine what the colonel has endured; and therein lies the problem. If only he might persuade him to co-operate!

'There is still so much we don’t understand about the human mind. What you’ve been through… In Egypt you lost your memories and all sense of self, only to regain them when your Mega Wave was no longer subject to the Telecephaloscope. You were made superhuman, then the Septmus Wave allowed your consciousness to leave your body and combat Orpheus. Your mind has encountered and survived stresses and forces of a completely unknown nature; it’s utterly uncharted territory in the worlds of science and medicine! Were you only willing to share your insights, there is so much that we might yet learn. Who knows what advances it may lead to?’

Olrik does not answer immediately, but when he speaks again there is a dangerous edge to his voice.

‘You ask me what was it like?’ he says with cold intensity. ‘To be robbed of my every sense of self, not knowing who I was or where I was? To be made into the puppet of a madman, and then a prisoner in my own head? As horrific as you would imagine.’

The professor hears the supressed anger and feels his cheeks flush. Too late he realises that he has let his enthusiasm get the better of him. He had forgotten who he is talking to.

‘I’m sorry. I -’

‘Spare me!’

Mortimer has no time to react before a sharp blow strikes the back of his head, and his vision explodes into a field of stars.

***

Olrik regards the supine form of Mortimer stretched out on the hearthrug, out for the count. The Browning had clattered to the floor as the professor slumped from the chair, and now lays just out of Mortimer's reach. Olrik kicks it into a corner of the room.

He had not meant to lose his temper, but after everything Mortimer has put him through (He is convinced that his initial episode in Egypt was something to do with the professor too), for the wretched man to start examining him, viewing him as nothing more than an interesting specimen even as he held him at gunpoint… Olrik had been overwhelmed by the need to do something, anything, to shut him up.

‘Sorry, Professor,’ he says stonily. ‘But I’m done being anyone’s Guinea Pig.’

Damping down the spike of anger that had caused him to lash out and the slight tremour in his hands, the colonel holsters his weapon and reaches into his jacket pocket with deliberate care, taking out his cigarette case and lighter. Leaning over the coffee table he picks up the holder, fits a cigarette and places it between his lips, taking a moment to savour the sensation – and the victory – as he strikes the flame and lights up. He has made do in the meantime, of course; it had just not been the same.

‘But you are right,’ he says quietly after a pause, exhaling a plume of smoke. Already he feels his nerves begin to soothe. ‘This did belong to my father, and it is all that I have left of him.’

The colonel's eyes take on a malevolent gleam, and his mouth instinctively twists in disgust.

‘After all, it was the only thing I ever wanted from the old tyrant.’

Mortimer is also right about his being out of the game too long. He’s been lucky tonight, but to be caught at all, and with so simple a ploy, is unacceptable. He needs to buck up his ideas, and fast.

He taps the holder and drops a clump of ash on Mortimer’s back. Briefly he toys with the idea of putting an end to the professor here and now. It wouldn’t take long; a couple of minutes with a cushion over the face, or a shoelace around the throat – no noise, no mess, done and dusted. But no, it would be an unnecessary complication. Olrik is yet to determine the precise nature of the relationship between Blake and Mortimer, but the last thing the colonel needs right now is Francis Blake hounding him like an avenging angel. Though the past two weeks have seen significant improvements in his health, Olrik is painfully aware that he has nowhere near recovered his full strength. The captain is a force to be reckoned with at the best of times, and Olrik is in no condition to pick a fight. He has what he came for, and plenty more besides; there is no reason for him to linger.

He has already spent too long here as it is. He shouldn’t have let Mortimer keep talking; another careless mistake. And besides the increasing risk of being interrupted, Sharkey is waiting for him in the car. Olrik had the man sprung from prison a week ago and, after learning of everything that has happened to his employer since Egypt, the bodyguard is inclined to be a little over-protective of him at the moment. Understandable, but somewhat irritating. If Olrik doesn't hurry up Sharkey will start to worry, and a worried Sharkey is liable to do something stupid – like break in round the back to try and find him, which will only result in further complications and embarrassment. A more permanent revenge on his old enemy will have to wait.

As it is, the professor will have a shocking headache to go with his breakfast tomorrow morning – or, better still, maybe that sly old bag of a landlady will wander up here early and find him passed out, and then he'll have some explaining to do! Blake, of course, will eventually twig that he has been tricked and return to London in a steaming rage, at which point there will doubtless be sharp words exchanged between the captain and his roomate. Olrik smiles at the thought.

‘Until the next time, dear Mortimer,' he purrs. 'May it not be too soon.’

Then he turns his back on the unconscious Mortimer and saunters out onto the landing, leaving a trail of fragrant tobacco smoke in his wake. He doesn't give his victim so much as a backward glance, and neither does he bother to close the doors behind him.

 

FIN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (With apologies for the delay in posting this last chapter; Olrik was being unco-operative. Which, all things considered, is probably only to be expected.)
> 
> I probably spent far too long squinting at comic panels for the purposes of this fic, trying to determine at which point Olrik changes his cigarette holder. Bearing in mind that the colour can and does sometimes vary from one panel to the next, especially in the original Jacobs run, I went by shape. The last time his original holder appears is at the beginning of 'Atlantis', and the next time we see him smoking in 'Voronov' he has changed over to the model associated with 'S.O.S. Meteors' onward. My conclusion is that somewhere between 'Atlantis' and 'Voronov' Olrik either a) loses it, or b) decides to stop carrying it around with him and use something a little more expendable instead. The former is as likely as the latter.
> 
> I also spent far too much time figuring out relative values of gold in 1950s Britain, allowing for decimalisation, inflation and spending power, to try and settle on a likely value for Olrik's cigarette holder. My conclusion was that Mortimer REALLY should not have been allowed to keep it, but then Mortimer gets away with a lot of things simply by virtue of being Mortimer. Even by 1950s standards, half the decor in 99A Park Lane is probably there only thanks to some creative fudging of the customs paperwork.
> 
> Picking up on threads from 'The Septimus Wave', I too found the inclusion of the 'Yellow M' story in the plot a bit frustrating, but have done my best to rationlise it. Whether successfully, or not, is yet to be seen.
> 
> And a final mention in dispatches for Mrs Benson. I like Mrs Benson, and feel that she really does not get enough credit for all the weirdness she has had to put up with over the years - first from her husband, and then from her two lodgers. She is cut from the same cloth as Sherlock Holmes' Mrs Hudson, but is far less prone to hysterics. And Dick the Cab Driver is stuck with Mortimer as a customer now, but somehow I don't think he particularly minds.


End file.
